


buzzcut season

by aestheticisms (R_Vienna)



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: F/M, The Future Past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-06 23:43:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1876941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Vienna/pseuds/aestheticisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They try to tell us all that we will lose. - Noire, Owain. The Future Past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	buzzcut season

"Hey, Owain?"

Her usual tremble is gone, her soft soprano fills the air with something worse, he thinks. This is the kind of tone reserved for funerals, for the end. She fidgets, rubs circles into her brown, leather gloves, her silver gaze glued to the floor.

Owain tilts his head, raises his left hand to her temple, and tucks loose strands of honey-blonde behind her ear. His right takes her hands, and he presses his forehead against hers.

“What’s wrong?”

She purses her lips and turns her head, his lips brush against her cheek, he trails kisses up and down her jawline, buries himself in the crook of her neck.

She sighs.

He stops. Holds her close, his hands link at the small of her back, he doesn’t want to let her go, not now, not ever, he’s tired of everyone he loved leaving him.

“They’re choosing squads, to get the Gemstones. For the ritual.” She whispers, chin on his shoulder, her small hands at her sides, she lets Owain hold her, because she’s selfish, really. She wants the sun all to herself, and if he’s willing, then who is she to stop him.

“You’re coming with me, right?”

His voice is soft and warm against her skin. So warm. So light.

She thinks about how much she wants him under her skin, how much she wishes for more time with him, maybe if things hadn’t turned out this way, maybe they would have exchanged vows under the Plegian sun.

Ha. Ha.

It’s pathetic, really. She shakes her head slowly.

“No.”

He blinks hard, pulls back,  furrows his dark brow, Noire can’t help but let her gaze drift, let it land anywhere but his eyes. Green, green eyes. Viridian, the color of Ylisse in the summer. Regna Ferox in the spring. Valm in the winter. 

(But never in Plegia.) 

“I can’t.” She says, simply. “Cynthia’s asked me to join her group. I’m not…sure why…but…we’re to leave in two day’s time.”

“Oh.”

The scion of legend can’t even muster a coherent response. _O_ _h_. His  _oh_  creates a chasm between them, Noire clenches her fists, blinks back tears. She’s shaking, and gods, Owain doesn’t know what to do. What can you do when the love of your forsaken life is tearing at the seams, she’s rubbing at her cheeks, at her eyes, trying to remove any evidence of emotional compromise, her lips turn up at the edges, the most awful laughter comes out. Bitter peals of broken laughter.

“Gods, I’m pathetic. I can’t do anything, I can’t stay strong, not even for us. I’m sorry, sorry—”

He kisses her. She has her hands on his face, she cups his cheeks and he’s got his hands on her back, pulls her closer to his chest, anything to make the tears go away.

True love’s kiss breaks spells but can it cast them? Can he weave wards and make magic on her lips?

“Don’t be sorry, you don’t have anything to be sorry about, it’s okay. We’ll be fine, we’ll be fine.” He doesn’t know why he keeps repeating those three words, maybe it’s to reassure himself. That he’ll come back, that it’ll be fine, that they’ll complete their mission and that they’ll make it back alive.

Noire pulls at his tunic, tugs at the pale yellow fabric, watches it fall to the broken tile floor. Her fingertips skim across his collarbones, sharp and protruding against his tan skin, they dance over his shoulders, and down his chest, scarred and bruised from the last skirmish, the last fight.

“Noire…”

Her name comes out like a prayer, he sighs into her skin, runs his branded hand through her hair. Her circlet falls, its golden beads bounce and break, little bright pieces litter the ground.

He tries not to think too much about their fragility.

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be okay.”

The coughing fit that follows does not making a convincing argument.

Noire laughs a little, flighty and nervous and heart wrenching all the same. 

“You’re going into the real fray, darling.”

Noire does not use terms of endearment often. Owain wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her close, he will not lose her. He will not. Her security is more precious than his own, Noire is his star, his moon, he will defy giants and leap across chasms to make sure that she gets out of this alive.

He would slay dragons to secure her happiness.

“Plegia will be unkind, but I— _we_  plan on making it back.”

He does his best to suppress any hesitation, any traitorous thought. His team will recover Sable and Argent. They will bring the Gemstones back to Mount Prism. Lucina will perform the Awakening rite.

They will. They must. There is no room for failure, not this time.

She grants him the mercy of another smile, and curls into his embrace. He kisses her forehead, softly, sadly.

“Sorry about your shirt…”

Pale gold pools around their ankles, and Owain can’t help but snort.

“Don’t worry about it.”

She hums against his neck, links their fingers together, rubs her thumb over his brand.

“I'll rain retribution upon our enemies and return a hero of the sun. They’ll call me Owain, the Brilliant.”

Noire smiles.

“You poemed.”

**Author's Note:**

> cross-post from tumblr, felt that the noiowa tag needed a fic and that. i had one. therefore.
> 
> please ship noire/owain with me or i will probably die of sadness


End file.
